


True Grit

by Maeve_of_Winter



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic), Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Hockey Magic, Hurt/Comfort, Interspecies Romance, M/M, Protectiveness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-02-22
Packaged: 2021-02-18 22:06:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22567267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maeve_of_Winter/pseuds/Maeve_of_Winter
Summary: There's a new hockey star in town, one who's even better than Crosby. Gritty can hardly help falling in love--it's a natural reaction upon finding someone who's finally going to help him bring down the Penguins.Or, Gritty meets Kent Parson and is instantly smitten. And ready and willing to take revenge on anyone who's ever hurt him.
Relationships: Eric "Bitty" Bittle/Jack Zimmermann, Gritty/Kent "Parse" Parson, past Kent "Parse" Parson/Jack Zimmermann - Relationship
Comments: 32
Kudos: 69
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 5





	True Grit

**Author's Note:**

  * For [adspexi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/adspexi/gifts).



> I couldn't resist the temptation to write some Gritty love. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> A big thanks to btrandbeyond for helping me with this fic! May Gritty bless a wonderful beta like you. 🧡

Anyone who’d heard of hockey had heard of Kent Parson or seen some picture of his shirtless body, complete with its disturbing lack of fur, splashed up against an American flag. But Gritty didn’t pay much attention to players who didn’t wear the black and orange, with the exception of rivals he hated with every fuzzy inch of his being. Since he didn’t actually hate Kent Parson, his feelings on him began and ended with resentment for scoring as many points against the Flyers as he did. 

But his feelings changed one night when Gritty was curled up on the worn couch in his lair located deep beneath the Wells Fargo Center, watching the NHL Awards on his ill-gotten television. There were no Flyers players nominated that year, which he’d protested by sending the committee multiple letters filled with strongly implied threats, but, much to his disappointment, it had made no difference. Now he was simply watching to root against every Penguin who was attending.

But then, over and over again, Kent Parson was announced as the winner—for the Art Ross, the Ted Lindsay, and then the Hart. And then, as Gritty waited breathlessly, his paws pressed to his maw in anticipation, Kent Parson was also announced as the winner of the Calder.

Gritty let out a bellow of delight, leaping up and dancing a rowdy jig across his limited edition vintage rug of Bill Barber’s face. With the first three awards, Kent Parson had been tied with Sidney Crosby’s rookie achievements. But with the Calder, he’d shot ahead and outdone him. Gritty couldn’t wait to rub his accomplishments in that smug Iceburgh’s face and prove to him that Sid the Kid wasn’t that special after all.

From that day forward, he decided that he would consider Kent Parson one of his own mascot-protected players. Anyone who could beat those dirty birds and take Crosby down a peg or two deserved all of the protection Gritty had to offer.

* * *

A hefty portion of Gritty’s free time of off-season was spent researching all that he could learn about Kent Parson. Of course, he attended to his mascots duties with vigor—he couldn’t let Philadelphia’s denizens down. They professed their loyalty to him and accepted and honored him despite his unusual appearance. It was only fair that he reward their faithfulness. 

But when his mascot duties were through for the day, he returned to his lair to settle in with the laptop Claude had brought to him, its large keyboard specifically designed for his clumsy paws (That boy was going places. Gritty would see to it no matter what the cost.). His aim was to discover the most important parts of Kent Parson’s personality. Yes, there statistics about his performance, reports of his off-ice activities, and discussions of if he would have still been drafted first if Jack Zimmermann had been among the options, but those topics were not matters worthy of Gritty’s attention. No, what mattered was Kent Parson’s  _ character _ on the ice, how he treated his teammates, if he respected his mascot.

To Gritty’s approval, he found that Kent Parson was devoted to his teammates, often stepping in to protect them if he thought it was needed, even though he was usually far smaller than both the teammate he was rescuing and their opponent. His talents in fighting were quite remarkable, much to Gritty’s excitement, and as a result, the press had dubbed him Kent “Powerhouse” Parson, “the pint-sized player who packs a potent punch”. Undersized but deadly, he reminded Gritty so much of Bobby Clarke that Gritty’s googly eyes misted over with unshed tears, and he need to pause to sniffle. It always flooded him with joy to see players who ran off of pure and simple  _ grit. _

Even the Aces’s statistics proved useful in the end, demonstrating a high number of assists compared to Kent Parson’s own goals, showing that he wasn’t just thinking for himself on the ice, but for the whole team. Learning that had Gritty shimmying in place, his eyes bouncing wildly in admiration; Kent Parson had been announced as captain recently, and now Gritty was beyond certain the Aces had made the right choice. 

(Kent Parson was the youngest NHL player to be declared captain in history, being named well before his nineteenth birthday, shortly after he led the Aces to their first ever Cup. Sidney Crosby was already nineteen, almost twenty, when he declared captain. Gritty was looking forward to gloating to Iceburgh about yet another way that Kent Parson had beaten Crosby.)

The mascot issue was complicated, and Gritty was not at all satisfied with what he discovered, and he decided then and there to make his displeasure well known with the Aces’ management. But that wasn’t Kent’s fault.

During his painstaking research, he noticed a silent yet apparent preference of Kent Parson’s that he felt very proud for spotting. At first he ignored the various interviews that popped up at the end of game clips, but then when he caught onto a similarity in several of them, he began watching in earnest.

Kent Parson liked hats. He always wore one after games when he was speaking to reporters. Unlike Gritty’s singular helmet, Kent Parson seemed to have numerous hats in all colors and patterns, but Gritty noticed that his hats often have roses on them in particular. Kent Parson must like roses. And a player with as much grit as he had deserved recognition.

Digging out his official Flyers credit card, Gritty ordered a tie covered with the Aces’s logo, vowing that next time Kent Parson was up for an award, Gritty would be there to present him with a rose bouquet when he most assuredly won. 

* * *

Tradition dictated that the captain of whatever visiting team present an offering to the home team’s mascot, and by the time of their home game with Vegas, Gritty was all but vibrating with excitement. He wanted to dance and stomp his way up to the visitors' lounge but held himself back, deliberately choosing to slowly and furtively creep up on him. He wanted to observe Kent Parson as he approached and see how he acted around his team.

But he didn’t gain much new information, only observing that, with the cluster of taller and broader teammates around him, the small and slight Kent Parson looked like an Eloi surrounded by a horde of Morlocks (And Gritty would know—he’d met plenty of both during his travels in the tunnels). Kent was showing them something on his phone, protesting as they chirped him, and bristling, Gritty decided to intervene. A player with as much grit as Kent Parson should not be disrespected, least of all by his own team. 

Letting out a warning growl, Gritty barrelled into view, ready to defend Kent Parson’s honor by selecting an Aces player to crush beneath the Zamboni as an example to the others. But he was immediately distracted by the distractingly bright gleam of Kent Parson’s smile, and he swiveled to give him his full attention. The feeling his smile brought to Gritty was familiar, like the sensation of the sun warming his fur like it did whenever he ventured up to the outdoor surface world. 

“Hi Gritty,” Kent Parson said cheerfully, shifting the brim of his hat further back so he could look up at Gritty more clearly. “Nice to meet you. I’m Kent.”

The introduction was simple, but nonetheless, it filled Gritty with the same joy of watching the Penguins get knocked out of the playoffs.  _ I’m Kent, _ not _ I’m Kent Parson. _ Kent wasn’t bothering with formality, leaving out his last name entirely. He didn’t just want their meeting to be business; he wanted to be friends. Gritty could already feel his eyes rolling around in excitement.

Kent pointed at an industrial-sized metal cooler on wheels. “We brought you something. Hope you like it.”

Much to Gritty’s elation, the cooler was bursting to the brim with some kind of hot dog he didn’t recognize, each dog resting beneath a bun coated in other food he didn’t recognize.

“Pastrami hot dogs,” Kent explained. “It’s a Vegas speciality, and since I heard you like regular hot dogs, I thought— _ oof!” _

He didn’t get the chance to finish; Gritty had already seized him in an enthusiastic hug, not caring that he bowled Carlson over in the process. (“Ow! Goddammit, Gritty!”) Then, with Carlson’s seat empty, Gritty cuddled up close to Kent, jabbing a fuzzy finger at Kent’s phone repeatedly, curious about what had been the cause of such scorn from his teammates.

Without hesitation, Kent showed him, the phone screen displaying a picture of a large gray feline that looked fluffy enough that it could have been one of Gritty’s brethren. “This is my cat, see? She’s wearing her own little Aces jersey.”

The statement brought fresh groans from Kent’s teammates, but Gritty silenced them with a snarl before cooing enthusiastically over the photo of the cat. It looked small and fierce, just like Kent, and because of that, Gritty thought she was perfect.

It had always been easy for him to relate to players with grit, and Kent no exception (even though he couldn’t compete with Pronger or Claude). Though the language barrier was a problem, in no time at all, Gritty was communicating his woeful tale of aspiring pet ownership to Kent—he’d always wanted a pet, but his appearance usually frightened any dog, cat, or gerbil that encountered him.

With a thoughtful hum, Kent looked at Gritty with sincere determination in his eyes. “You want a pet that won’t scare easily? Let me think on that. I’ll get back to you, I promise.”

Gritty believed him, and then trilled his goodbye, giving him one final hug. As he happily made his way back to his lair to deposit his cooler of pastrami dogs before the game, he decided that he’d arrange to send Kent a bouquet of roses before he left Philly, in orange and black, so he’d know who they were from.

* * *

Trash talk before the mascot showdown at the All-Stars was only expected, and Gritty could chirp better than any bird, that was for sure. Especially Iceburgh.

But when Hunter started disrespecting Pronger for seeing the light and saying sayonara to the Oilers? Gritty was done being merciful. Talk shit, get hit, by Grit, as far as he was concerned.

So he didn’t think much about it when he launched himself at Hunter in a full-body tackle. He didn’t regret it, either, even though it did hurt when Hunter sunk his fangs deep into Gritty’s shoulder.

(Hunter’s funeral, however. Gritty’s breed had a special defense mechanism to deter predators; their blood gave off noxious fumes whenever it made contact with oxygen. Hunter was in for a treat every time he inhaled.)

But before it could escalate further than that, someone was forcibly unhinging Hunter’s jaw from Gritty’s flesh and then dragging him away. Gritty was too preoccupied with shouting curses back at Hunter for  _ daring _ to besmirch Pronger’s good name to notice until several moments later that his sudden savior was none other than Kent. When he did, though, he let out an affectionate purr, dipping his head to nuzzle it against Kent’s neck.

Kent grinned at him even as he shucked off his suit jacket to press against the punctures on Gritty’s shoulder. “Can’t avoid a fight, can you?” he asked, but his voice was fond. “Must be the Philly in you.” He fluffed up the fur on Gritty’s face when it had been greased down by Hunter’s oily paws. “I wouldn’t have you any other way. Might even give you a few batteries to toss at some hosers I know.”

Gritty chuffed happily at him, reaching out and patting him on the head, grateful for Kent’s encouragement, and also impressed, once again, at his sheer grit.

After all, Gritty protected a whole roster of players. But Kent had been the only player who had ever tried to protect him in return. And just the thought had pleasant warmth coiling in the pit of his belly.

That’s when he knew: he’d throw batteries at any hoser who Kent asked him to take out.

* * *

With ever rising glee, Gritty eagerly tracked Kent’s progress throughout his first year of captaincy. He cheered when Kent got a hat trick against the Stars and burned an effigy of Sidney Crosby in celebration when he got another against the Pens. He roared in anger when Malkin’s response was to high-stick Kent in the face and then bellowed in fury when it didn’t even get a call and Malkin slid by without any consequences, just like Malkin always did. The next several hours were occupied by Gritty roaming the tunnels near his lair to locate enough cockroaches to fill several mildewy cardboard boxes. He then mailed most of them to Malkin, but for good measure, he also saved one for Crosby.

To Gritty’s delight, Kent didn’t forget about him, sending him presents every couple of weeks. One was a large plush cat— _ since you seemed to like mine, _ Kent added in the note that came with it, and another was a sampler of the best jerky Vegas had to offer.  _ In case Fargo ever runs out of hot dogs, _ Kent said on the card. Kent even sent him the hat that he’d been wearing the night of his hat trick against the Pens. Paws trembling as he painstakingly lifted it out of the package, Gritty cradled it in awe, barely able to believe what he was holding. He gave it a place of honor on the shelf of his most treasured possessions, right beside his jar of Bobby Clarke’s teeth. 

But the best gift arrived when the Flyers went to Vegas. Gritty received a personal invitation from Kent to meet up with him after the game, and he was so excited about getting to see him again that it almost made up for the crushing disappointment of seeing his team lose in overtime.

He met Kent in his personal captain’s lounge. The walls weren’t plastered in blankets and banners from every era of Flyers hockey like Gritty’s lair was, but that was probably because the Aces hadn’t been around for very long. Instead, it was decorated like a smooth and sleek version of the Old West, complete with gold-gilt cow skulls, and it gave Gritty a thrill to pretend to be an outlaw conspiring with his partner in crime Kent.

“I’ve made good on my promise,” Kent said, smiling, the bruise on his cheek from Malkin’s shameless retaliation still bright purple on his cheek. (Wild Wing would be thrilled for such a talented player to be wearing his team’s colors.) “Here you are.”

Carefully, he handed Gritty a clear plastic box lined with sand. Confused, Gritty accepted it with a tilt of his head.

“It’s a hermit crab,” Kent explained. “You said that most typical pets were afraid of you, so I decided it might be better to avoid mammals so you could have a pet that loves you.”

Gritty’s head shot up from where he’d been peering into the tank, a strange feeling overwhelming his Philly-powered heart as he gazed at Kent. Hockey superstar Kent Parson had remembered to find him a pet, just like he’d promised. It was an amazing feeling, like coming across a fresh mountain of Zamboni ice that had been saved just for him. But then, Gritty shouldn’t have been surprised. Kent was a gritty player, and grit recognized grit, after all.

Slowly, gently, Gritty rotated the tank in his lap until he could see the small crab. It was a very tiny little critter, but his heart filled with joy at the sight of it, and he burbled happily, his eyes bouncing with excitement.

Kent laughed, the color of his eyes seeming to shift as he did. “Glad you like it, Gritts. What are you going to name him?”

A moment passed as Gritty paused, thinking furiously, gazing contemplatively down into the tank.

“You could do a pun,” Kent suggested helpfully. “I named my cat ‘Kit Purrson’, after myself,” he admitted a touch sheepishly.

But there was no shame in naming a pet after a player with grit, even if you happened to be that player, so Gritty patted Kent’s back comfortingly. And as he did, an idea sprung into his mind, which he rushed to tell Kent. 

“Claw’d?” Kent repeated, grinning. “Like Claude Giroux? I like it. And I’m glad you like your little hermit. I think you’ll be a great pet owner.”

Kent’s faith in him had Gritty bursting with pride, and with gusto, he seized Kent in a huge hug, immensely grateful for the hermit crab and for Kent’s friendship. Without a moment of hesitation, Kent nuzzled closer and hugged him back, as if he were one of Gritty’s own boys. 

In response, Gritty crooned tenderly, running a paw along Kent’s jaw, taking care not to brush against the bruise. Now that he was closer, he could see that it looked very ugly and very deep. While it was no doubt proof of Kent’s grit, he found himself wishing he’d been at the game to charge out onto the ice to crack Malkin’s stick in half before he’d had the chance to hurt Kent.

But since the moment had passed, Gritty resolved to make the trek up to Pittsburgh and fill Malkin’s car with live pigeons. Grit recognized grit, and dirty birds deserved dirty birds.

* * *

Much as he hated to admit it, later in the season, it became clear that Kent needed more protection than Gritty could offer. Especially after Kent was injured in the fourth round of the playoffs and had to be stretchered off the ice, leading the Aces being knocked out of the running that very game. 

Ridiculously, Vegas didn’t have an actual mascot of their own. Oh, they had an “official” one—Lady Luck, a blonde ice girl in dramatic showgirl makeup who was always portrayed with a hand of playing cards in her manicured grip. She usually did choreographed ice-dancing routines during half-time and posed with Kent frequently for photos, so there were always plenty of rumors about them dating. (Though Gritty had it on good authority from S.J. Sharkie that Lady Luck was actually involved in a clandestine but passionate affair with Jeff Troy.) Still, she was just a regular human, and Vegas didn’t have a real mascot who had the power and magic to protect their players. That meant they’d left their entire team, particularly their captain, vulnerable to attacks and injuries. 

So, thanks to Vegas’s decision to spring for style over substance, Gritty needed to go to the bench. Nothing if not a charismatic leader, he rallied every other Metro mascot to his side, barring Iceburgh, because he had standards. 

Some of the other mascots were easier to convince than others, and Slapshot in particular was reluctant to agree, unwilling to provide protection to a player who didn’t wear his colors. But, as Gritty reminded all of them, the true enemy was Sidney Crosby and his ugly, overexposed mug. Wasn’t it worth it to help Kent if it meant finally that he could then take out Crosby for all of them?

Swayed by Gritty’s brilliant reasoning, Slapshot agreed but remained adamant that Ovechkin would always come first. Gritty expected nothing less; after all, it was only his intense hatred for Crosby that had endeared Kent to him in the first place.

But during their meeting, Gritty received unwelcome news from the NJ Devil: Kent had been spotted on a college campus multiple times over the recent months, a college that was in Boston. And since it was in Boston, it was Blades’s turf, and Kent made himself vulnerable to any team in the Atlantic division by going there.

Well, the next time Kent was at this “Samwell College”, Gritty would just have to go and drag him back to Philly.

Gritty thanked NJ Devil for the information and even went easy on him during their friendly round of Russian roulette later on.

* * *

The following season was already in full swing when Gritty caught wind of Kent playing in Boston and visiting Samwell again. Without hesitation, he set off, determined to protect Kent even if he had to miss a Flyers game. After all, Kent was the one who had supplanted Crosby, so if Kent got hurt, those wretched birds would be on top.

The journey to Samwell was not at all enjoyable to Gritty. Accustomed to the network of underground tunnels he used to navigate Philly, long ventures above ground in unfamiliar territory left him feeling exposed and vulnerable. He could have used his mascot magic to make the trip much shorter, but he didn’t want to drain any of his power right at the start, preferring to save it in case he needed to protect Kent later on.

There wasn’t any kind of improvement once he reached campus. Gritty had always been strong and confident, thriving off the overflowing love Philadelphians had for him. But all he can sense at Samwell is stress and tension. And instead of greeting him with hugs and cheers like fans did in Philly, Samwell students backed away from him as soon as they spotted him, their eyes wide with distress, their unhappiness clearly becoming far too much for them in that moment. Gritty felt desperately sorry for them, aching to leave Samwell, but he refused to depart until he was sure Kent was safe. 

The only bright spot was that he eventually found a good-lookin’ broad in the shape of dancing well. She twisted and twirled helpfully in the direction of the hockey house, and Gritty lumbered on, trying not to cringe as yet another few students spotted him and shrieked in alarm. The sooner he was away from the thick smog of nervousness and anxiety that hung over Samwell, the better.

Even if Wellie hadn’t directed him the hockey house, Gritty would have found it by the sound of raised voices angrily shouting at each other. Even fifty yards away, he could hear them. He recognized one as Kent immediately, but the other one was unfamiliar. 

“You think I want you here?” the unfamiliar voice shouted. “You think I want you coming here all the time to lord your Cup and your captaincy over me?”

Gritty didn’t like this voice at all. It sounded angry, and not the good, gritty kind of anger that pushed players to try their hardest. It sounded like the kind of angry that could hurt Kent.

“I’m not doing that!” Kent protested, and he sounded desperate in a way that unnerved Gritty. “I want to help you! That’s all I’m trying to do here. If you did want to sign with the Aces—”

The unfamiliar voice laughed bitterly. “ ‘Help me’? You actually think you can help me? And you think I’d want to sign with the Aces, knowing you’d always be there to remind me that I needed your help to start my career?”

“It’s not a big deal, Jack, I wouldn’t—”

“ ‘Not a big deal?’ ” The strange voice rose, seething with fury. “My career isn’t a ‘big deal’? Why, because I’m not as good Kent ‘The Powerhouse’ Parson? Because I missed the draft? Because I didn’t have my career handed to me like you did?” 

The insolent question had renewed determination pumping through Gritty, and he charged toward the backyard, intent on defending Kent’s honor. 

No one, repeat,  _ no one _ on his watch questioned whether a truly gritty player had earned their roster spot.

Surging forward with a mighty roar, he rounded the corner of the house, crashing up onto the porch. His eyes swiveled to spot Kent immediately and made sure he was unharmed, and then he roughly seized the stranger beside him and started shaking him relentlessly.

“Gritty, no!” In an instant, Kent was there, trying to tear the stranger away. “Leave him alone, he wasn’t hurting me!”

Releasing the stranger but snarling in protest, Gritty turned beseechingly to Kent, pleading with him to give him the chance to rip the heathen from limb to limb.

But before Kent could give him permission, the stranger was straightening his shirt and casting a disgusted glare at Kent and then at Gritty. 

“Don’t bother sticking up for me,” he told Kent acidly, turning to go back into the house. “It’s not like you’ve made much of an effort over the years.” Then he slammed the door shut behind him.

Shadows obscured Kent’s face at the words, but there was no mistaking the defeat in his shoulders as he ambled to the porch steps and slumped down, his face buried in trembling hands.

“Well,” he said, his voice cracking. “That could have gone better.” A odd muffled sound escaped his throat before his shoulders began shaking in earnest, and after several moments, Gritty realized he was crying.

Desperate to soothe him, Gritty immediately tugged Kent up from where he was sitting and quickly swapped places with him, sitting down in Kent’s place and then pulling Kent into his lap. Then he wrapped his arms around him, holding him in place, hoping that his fur could keep Kent warm. He also made sure to tuck Kent’s head in just beneath his chin, where his pelt was the softest, in the hope that his fur wouldn’t scratch at Kent’s face. But it also meant that he could feel every droplet of tears that spilled down Kent’s face and soaked into his hide.

Crooning to him softly, determined to comfort this player who gave so much to his team and had given Gritty hot dogs and a hermit crab, Gritty stroked a large paw down Kent’s back. He took pains to be gentle, and even though he didn’t think he was particularly good at it, within a few minutes, Kent’s tears had died down and he simply sat quietly. 

“Thanks, Gritty,” he said after a little while, his voice low and hoarse, like he’d just finished a five-minute shift.

Gritty just offered a reassuring sound before helping Kent stand, not fully letting go of him as they rose from the porch. He didn’t want Kent to stay in Boston a moment longer than he had to, especially not with that angry stranger lurking around. Who knew when he might return and try to defile Kent’s grittiness again? Better to get him to where it was safe, where Gritty could take care of him.

Without asking Kent, Gritty summoned his magic and wished them back to his lair, and within seconds, they were. Heaving a sigh of relief at being back in his terrority, Gritty couldn’t help but breathe in the scent of Kent’s citrusy cologne. Claude’s smelled like leather, and Pronger’s smelled like fallen leaves, but Gritty thought Kent’s somehow smelled even better. He smelled like oranges, Gritty's favorite fruit.

Once they were in the lair, Kent made a move to pull away from Gritty. But, tutting his disapproval, Gritty scooped him up and carried him the short ways over to his nest, depositing him on the mound of Flyers blankets and towels. As soon as Kent was comfortably settled, Gritty grabbed one of his best blankets he used for watching TV, and then another, and another, bundling each one of them around Kent to keep him secure and safe with him, not back in Boston with the horrible stranger.

His fussing brought Kent to let out a low chuckle, and he smiled slightly at Gritty despite his red-rimmed eyes.

“Thanks, Gritty,” he said, wiping at his face. “You know, forget Southern hospitality—I’d rather get it from Philly, especially if it means you’re going to be there.”

Pleased at the compliment, Gritty preened for a moment, but his pride faded as caring for Kent took priority. With a series of gentle nudges, he convinced Kent to lie down in the nest so he could. While he kept Kent cuddled close to him and petted his hair to soothe Kent to sleep, Gritty remained upright and vigilant, determined to be sure that no one else hurt Kent.

The day would come when he hunted that angry stranger down and took revenge. But for now, all he wanted was to have Kent drift off to sleep in his arms and dream peacefully of the total annihilation of the Penguins’ franchise.

* * *

**Epilogue**

Gritty never forgot a grudge. And he especially never forgot anyone hurting one of his players. And he could never forgive anyone for hurting Kent.

His search for the angry stranger was short but successful: he was Jack Zimmermann, son of Bob Zimmermann. Gritty should have known that only the son of a Penguin would have such barbaric words for a player with actual grit. The birds were dirty and beyond any kind of grit or honor. It was in their blood.

Jack Zimmermann wasn’t in the NHL, not yet. But Gritty could wait.

And he did, formulating his plan carefully. Years passed, Philadelphians lived and died, and the lockout came and went, leaving a cloud of uncertainty hanging over the NHL.

But of one thing, Gritty was sure: he would have revenge. Not just for himself, but for Kent. 

At long last, the Jack Zimmermann entered the NHL. On the night of his first game against the Flyers, Gritty was already prepared. He’d been awaiting this reckoning for years. It was a home game, and he’d requested a T-shirt cannon, been denied it, and then plundered and pillaged as many arena offices as necessary until he found and took what was rightfully his. He’d then loaded it with his custom-designed ammunition, remembering Kent’s remark about knowing hosers who needed batteries thrown at them.

Now, Gritty knew one, too.

Cannon in hand, he bided his time at the front of the arena near the visitors’s section, watching the Falcs’ warm-ups, waiting for Zimmermann to skate within range. Every time he glided closer, Gritty’s googly eyes calculated the distance, his furry finger tightening on the trigger, waiting for the precise moment to strike.

Then it happened. A tiny figure, a petite blond teenager, emerged into view on the Falcs’ bench (what he was doing there, Gritty didn’t know, but he also didn’t care). A few moments passed before Zimmermann skated over to him, but when he did and they began to talk, he reached up and slipped off his helmet, exposing his head fully and making himself the perfect target. 

The opportunity was practically served to Gritty on a silver platter, more golden than the tie-breaking goal Kent had scored at the Vancouver Olympics a few years back. 

There would never be a sweeter chance than this one, and Gritty admittedly hadn’t anticipated civilliains like this blond boy getting caught crossfire—but sacrifices had to be made.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Gritty lifted the T-shirt cannon to his shoulder, took aim, and fired.

**Author's Note:**

> In case you're wondering about the reference to the Vancouver Olympics, in this 'verse, Kent was the one to score the Golden Goal instead of Crosby, much to Gritty's delight. And it looks like Gritty fired the Golden Bullet at the Falcs game. ~~Gritty was on the grassy knoll.~~ He was proud to do it.
> 
> Have a Gritty-blessed day! 🧡


End file.
